


my trashcan of original stories

by Purpleskiesofdragons



Category: Original Work
Genre: Amnesia, Angels and Demons, Box Baby Universe!!, Car Accidents, Drunk characters, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Heroes and Villains, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lost in space - Freeform, Missing Parental Figures, More Parallels, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Parallels, Past Lives, Prompt Fic, Santa??, Satan??, Scars, Serial Killers, but they’re not quite in love yet, but with my own twist and characters, inspired by cheap shots and setbacks, oxygen depletion?, sad harmonicas, space, theyre actually really cute tbh, with like a lowkey broship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21903274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleskiesofdragons/pseuds/Purpleskiesofdragons
Summary: A collection of original stories, some inspired by prompts. Some had potential to be fanfiction but weren’t long enough, so they were made into small short story snippets. Who knows, they might even appear later ;)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. Unlikely Alliance: Part 1

It’s nighttime; one am, the villain estimates. No one is reasonably up at this hour (excluding them, of course, but even they are going to bed right now). 

That’s why, when the bell dings mournfully from the entrance hall, the villain’s curiosity has been successfully awakened. Dragging themselves from the hardwood desk, which had begun to imprint on their elbows, the villain makes their way downstairs. The lights stay off; they can see fine without them, and besides, if it’s some incredibly dedicated marketer, the villain can give them a proper scare with a lovely background blaze of hellfire. 

No sooner than the villain opens the door are they greeted with a familiar face. It brings a small bubble of sadness to the surface; they haven’t spoken with them in years, much less on good terms…

All remorse of the past is overcome with a nauseating horror when they see exactly why the hero is here. 

They look _exhausted_ , barely on their feet, with blood encrusted to one side of their head, and a bruise blooming in full glory on one cheek. They’re swaying from side to side to side and their eyes are glazed, as if they were drugged. The villain opens their mouth to inquire on the hero’s condition, but the hero, in a voice barely above a mumble, speaks first. 

“‘m sorry… I had nowhere else to go.” Shock quickly turns into panic as the hero crumples, legs giving out from underneath them. The villain manages to catch them before they strike the wooden doorstep, and their completely dead weight is nothing short of alarming. They tip the hero’s face up a little bit, to better examine the hero’s wounds, and bite their lip; it looks serious. The bruise hasn’t been there for a while, and the blood is still a bit wet at the edges. Whatever happened, the hero had just managed to escape, and then came _here_. 

Out of all places, the villain’s own house is very unlikely, skyrocketing out of the realm of possibilities, but that doesn’t matter now.

Sighing, the villain, as gently as possible, manhandles the hero into a more comfortable position and carries them into the house. They let out a faint moan as the villain gingerly touches their ribcage. Whatever happened, whatever would give the hero, normally such a resilient figure, these injuries, the villain has no idea. 

But that was a conversation for the morning.


	2. Unlikely Alliance: Part Two

The villain is definitely not a stalker. 

At least, that’s what they hope the hero will think when they wake up on the villain’s couch, the villain desperately trying not to look creepy as they sit (perch? They don’t know, they have little regard or knowledge on sitting posture) on the armchair across from them. 

“Are you a stalker?” comes a muffled voice from the (possibly) unnecessary mountain of blankets under which the hero resides. The villain simply groans and thumps their head back. That Plan crashed and burned worse than they did, which was saying something. “Where am I?”

“Heaven,” the villain says dryly. There’s a small squeak and the blankets are abruptly thrown aside in one great mountain of fabric, revealing a disheveled, bandaged, hero. Their hair is mussed from sleep and they frankly look adorable, but over the villain’s dead body will they tell them that. 

“This isn’t Heaven,” the hero says crossly once they’ve recovered their senses. The villain sits patiently (and perhaps a little anxiously) as they wait for everything to really sink in. It won’t hurt. It won’t. 

Surprise, recognition, and coldness flash across the hero’s face in the span of less than a second, just as promised. The villain swallows down a lump as the rumpled look is replaced with a cold and businesslike demeanor. 

“(C/N),” the hero says. “Thank you for inviting me into your residence and taking sufficient care of me. However, I have duties to attend to in Heaven--” 

“Stop,” the villain interrupts wearily, holding up one hand. “I get it. You’re welcome, no problem, blah blah blah. You can--” their voice catches on the next words ( _ stupid, stupid, stupid, why are you hesitating _ )-- “you can leave now.” The hero seems surprised at the dismissal, and a faint quirk of their eyebrow indicated that they hadn’t missed the skip in the villain’s breath. 

“Alright then,” the hero says after a few beats. They stand to leave; the villain drops their gaze into their lap, unconsciously clenching their hands and waiting for that click that solidifies their solidarity. 

“What happened last night?” The hero’s voice floats back to them, almost tensely, from in front of them. The villain looks up to meet their gaze, but as all strategic Awkward Villains do, they don’t look at the hero. Their nose is a preferable place. “What did I say?” 

“Afraid of seeming weak?” the villain bites out before they can properly reflect on what they just said. The hero jerks back a little, but they recover their footing quickly. 

“I asked a question,” they say in that stupid authoritative tone. It means business; it means  _ learn your place _ ; it means that  _ we can’t do this anymore— it’s not me, it’s you _ . 

“You going to threaten me?”

“Not if I don’t have to.” 

“All over a simple question,” the villain drawls; they don’t want to admit it, but the bitterness is crawling up their throat and weaving around their windpipe like acid, leaving blazing trails of hurt behind that the villain has never and will never know how to fix. It goes undetected by the hero ( _ they used to be able to tell if something was wrong by the twist of a grimace or the clench of a fist) _ . 

“Tell me.” 

“What if I don’t want to?”

The hero lets out a frustrated sigh and stiffly takes a seat opposite the villain.

“We’ll do this the kindergarten way,” they snipe. “I’ll answer a question for you if you answer mine.” The villain shrugs; they have no intention of actually telling the hero what they said. 

It’s been at least twenty minutes and the villain still hasn't cracked. The hero, on the other hand, is getting steadily more frustrated at the villain’s deflecting.

“What is so terrible about telling me?” the hero demands. The villain meets their gaze steadily. 

“Nothing is bad about it,” they reply with the same aloofness they've held up for the past while. “Well, not bad to my standards. Was really quite simple, actually…” 

“Stop being petty and tell me,” the hero snaps. “If you’re so invested in this secret, then fine, I won’t report this visit to the higher-ups.” The villain’s eyebrows raise slightly. 

“Going against protocol?” 

“Shut up,” the hero replies crossly. “This is  _ one instance. _ After that, I am leaving. For good.” The villain waffles for a few moments. One snatched moment is better than nothing. 

“Fine. You asked for help. You didn’t have anyone else to turn to.” The hero freezes; though the villain has long since buried their feelings, they can’t help pitying the frozen look on their face. They could never quite stand to see the hero like that. “Is it really that bad up there?” 

“Nothing is wrong.” Their shields are up again. “Speak nothing of this.” 

“No thank you?” the villain drawls. The hero pauses; there is a beat, then—

“Thank you,” they say stiffly, before walking to the door and yanking it open with more force than necessary. The villain knows it’s a last-ditch effort, but they call out anyways. 

“If it gets too much… you know where to find me.” 

The hero doesn’t pause as they slam the door shut, but the villain knows by the minuscule tilt of their head, they heard. And maybe… this won’t be the last time like the hero promised. 


	3. It's Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how far one can get looking like a homeless man on the side of the road.

It’s funny how far one can get looking like a homeless man on the side of the road. 

It’s even funnier when one is not trying to _look_ like a homeless man, but is in fact a serial killer. 

An occasional haunt of the streets of metro Atlanta, the Flower Child is whispered to be a born-and-bred killer with no shred of mercy in his heart, simply leaving a flower sticker on his victim’s cheek after he’s done with his macabre dealings. He’s said to wear black sclera contacts, have skin pale as death, and never strikes in the same place twice, appearing only once a month, spontaneously. 

Only a bit of this information is incorrect.

The Flower Child is female, and that is the only part of their description everyone gets wrong. _But surely, they're not female, that's impossible_ , one particularly ignorant gentleman might protest. _Women cannot fight with the skill and passion that men do_. That kind of thinking always makes for a very messy “accident” later on. Mercy is a questionable and often absent virtue in serial killers, because learning to block out things like morals comes with the whole package. It just doesn’t fit with how they work. Particularly not with the Flower Child. 

_What about the vampire getup?_ a particularly scornful older woman might add. _Surely no one with a sense of dignity or self-awareness would go around looking like that_. The “vampire getup,” as many people call it, is a part of their description that everyone also gets wrong, but for different reasons. It’s less “creepy cosplay” than it is little understanding of how exactly the Flower Child’s mind works. And, as police officers arriving too late to a crime scene confirm from the note written in blood and left tucked in the victim’s hand, the eye-encompassing contacts, killing patterns, and pale skin are just life choices. 

And they aren’t even just “life choices.” They’re _aesthetic_. 

Aesthetic may sound stupid, but it works brilliantly to inspire terror. Clad in a flowy white dress and a veil that hides everything except pure black eyes, and reaching a height barely taller than a sixth grader, the Flower Child works simply-- she worms her way into men’s hearts, plants fear there, and leaves a little flower sticker when she’s feeling nice. 

A stranger stands on the edge of a road now, adjusting their bucket hat a little when the wind sweeps it a little bit off-kilter. They’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes now for someone to come roaring down the road, pause, and maybe let a (rather raggedy) homeless-looking person into their van. The stranger won’t take off their hat nor move during the entire journey, and when the driver asks for a destination, expecting a bus stop or something, there will be no answer. 

That is the way serial killers work, after all. 

  
  
~❀☠❀~

It’s funny how far one can get looking like a serviceman in an inconspicuous work van.

It’s even funnier when one isn’t exactly trying to _look_ like a serviceman, but with the correct amount of assumption, one might figure out that they are in fact a serial killer. 

An occasional haunt of the streets of metro Atlanta, the Black Fox (no relation to the Black Dog) is whispered to be a voice in the shadows, a quiet wind that sweeps unsuspecting pedestrians into dark alleys, wiping their records and life clean off the slate. They are said to wear a sleek black clothing, a dark mask that covers everything except their eyes, and various classy black hats. No one can quite tell if they’re male or female, but it’s suspected by sexist gentlemen that the Black Fox is a man. 

Only a bit of this information is correct. 

The Black Fox is female, and that is the only part of their information that everybody gets wrong. _No woman would ever have the cunning to do what the Black Fox does_ , a particularly stupid mailman might claim. _Surely one of that build and dress can’t be a woman_. That kind of thinking always makes for a suspicious “disappearance” later on. Fashion is a questionable but never absent trait in serial killers, because killing in style comes with the package. It just fits in with how they work. Particularly with the Black Fox. 

_What about their ambiguity?_ a shocked hyper-feminist might add. _Surely one with those skills could put it to better use than killing_. While that’s an admirable take, it’s a part of their description that everyone gets wrong, but for different reasons. It’s less ambiguity than it is little understanding of how exactly the Black Fox’s mind works. And, as police officers arriving too late to a crime scene confirm from the simple message on the phone left tucked in the victim’s hand, the deliberate mystery is just tactic. 

And it isn’t even just “tactic.” It’s _aesthetic_. 

Aesthetic may sound stupid, but it works brilliantly to inspire terror. Often clad in a tailored black coat and a fedora tipped so low that it hides their face, the Black Fox works simply-- she waits in the shadows for her target, erases their life with a single swipe, and leaves a smiley face as the victim’s last text to a loved one when she’s done. 

A stranger hums to themselves as they drive down a quiet highway, tapping their hands against the flower sticker stuck to the wheel. They’ve been driving for fifteen minutes now, waiting for someone to show up on the side of the road, flag them down, and maybe ask to be let into their van. The stranger won’t stop their tapping nor cease humming during the entire journey, and when they ask for a destination from their passenger, perhaps expecting a bus stop or something, there will be no answer. 

A game that goes both ways is how serial killers work, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired from a Tumblr prompt: “We’re not supposed to pick up hitchhikers because they may be serial killers. However, serial killers often pick up hitchhikers. Therefore, has a serial killer ever picked up another serial killer and if they become best friends?”
> 
> my mom told me I was morbid


	4. Dear Satan

_ Dear Santa, my name is Abigail, I live on 195 Mulberry Lane, could I please have a pony… _

_ Dear Santa, my name is Harry, I want a pet snake… _

_ Dear Santa, my name is Nancy and I don’t celebrate Christmas but can I have a new dad... _

_ Dear Santa, my name... _

_ Dear Santa… _

Santa put aside his newest stack of letters that he’d had Prancer nip down to the nearby elementary school to pick up, a small sigh blowing the corners of his beard up. Out of the millions of requests from children across the world, he could only grant so many within reason, and his reindeer, while delightfully powerful, could not trolley a horse across the sky. Especially-- he set the first letter into a growing stack labeled “PONY”-- not five thousand, three hundred and ninety-two of them. 

He stretched over to find the newest stack, only to have his fingers brush the cardboard bottom of the box of letters. That couldn’t be right, could it? Surely, there were more to sort through? Granted, there was the occasional mess-up, where someone wrote Snata or Sandta or Nsata or Satan--

Oh.  _ Curses _ . 

“SANTA!” Santa felt his head slip into his hands, a quiet _ speak of the devil  _ drifting through his mind, as the doors to his office flew open with a spectacular bang, complete with dry ice, pyrokinetics, and the whole shebang. Satan stood there in the middle of it all, his three-piece suit as impeccable as ever and eyes sparking dangerously with Hellfire. 

“Please don’t incinerate the children’s letters,” Santa reminded him tiredly, because Satan barged in on him every few years or so, always brandishing a mislabeled stack of letters. Satan scowled at him but reigned in his Display-of-Demonic-Power a little bit (or at least, away from the mounds of paper all over the office). “Let me have them, and you can be on your devilish way or whatever.” Per usual, Satan surrendered his letters-- there were more than usual this time, Santa noted-- and he stalked out of the office, the doors falling shut with a bang. Santa sighed and moved to sort the newest batch of letters. 

_ Dear Satan… _

_ Dear Satan… _

_ Dear Satan…  _

~~~~

It was a week before Christmas, the Big Night, the  _ Big Chimney Deal _ , and Santa was close to tearing out his beard in frustration. A whole stack of letters-- sixty-seven out of several million-- had gone missing, and while their presence was something that could have been overlooked, there would be sixty-seven children that year who wouldn’t be getting anything. And Santa would  _ not _ have that weighing on his consciousness. He searched his memory for any possible time that they could have been gone missing (surely, no one stole _ Christmas letters? _ ) when suddenly, it hit him harder than Comet and Cupid’s disastrous reindeer games.

Hurrying over to his toy workshop as fast as he could, he began sifting through the stack of letters from a week or so ago, when Satan had barged in, and sure enough, they were missing. A single black feather rested in between all the  _ Dear Santa’s _ , its feathered, inky tips waving cheerfully back at him. 

Gritting his teeth, Santa waved a hand at the confused elf workers, dismissing their questions, and called for his private sleigh. He had a journey to Hell to make. 

~~~~

“Santa! I never thought I’d see you barging into Hell!” Santa, not caring about whether all the soot and smoke got his suit dirty, climbed out of his sleigh and marched toward the grinning lord of Hell, who was dressed in what looked like a ridiculously fancy Armani suit, his hair mussed in a certain way so the tips fell teasingly over one eye.  _ Lord of temptation indeed _ , Santa snorted to himself, as he frogmarched the Devil into the wall. 

“Why, this is new,” Satan chuckled in surprise, but his grin faded as he saw the grim look on Santa’s face. “What, did one of your ridiculous reindeer take a dump in your sleigh or something?” 

“You should know why I’m here,” Santa snapped. “Where are the misaddressed children’s letters that you gave me a week and a half ago?” At his words, Satan stiffened slightly, and his expression became noticeably steelier. He and Santa glared at each other for a few moments, each daring the other to look away first.

“They were addressed to me,” Lucifer finally ground out. 

“I handle them every other year,” Santa shot back. “Why did you take them back?” Lucifer didn’t respond. “Did you just want to interfere with the happiest night of some childrens’ lives, all so that you could have a laugh? What part of your damnation job includes ruining _ Christmas? _ Are you really--” Each word seemed to anger Satan more (said Devil was sparking dangerously from his eyes), and Santa braced himself for some kind of explosion. Satan opened his mouth to respond, when-- 

“My Lord, where do you want me to put the horse?” Both Satan and Santa’s heads whipped up (in a rather accurate imitation of startled deer, if Santa had to say himself) as a demon came ambling out from behind a rocky outcropping, leading a white horse spooked stiff. When it saw Santa, the demon froze. “Uhh… bad time, sir?”

“Thestablesunderthepalacearefine,” Satan said quickly, studiously ignoring Santa, who was attempting to grab his attention, with no success (and though he wouldn’t admit it, biting back a laugh). The demon wasted no time skittering away, dragging the horse along with him, who wisely seemed to understand that its presence wasn’t welcome at the moment. There was a beat of silence.

“You read one of their letters, didn’t you?” Santa asked softly. Satan refused to look at him. “You know, it’s alright, they are quite touching--” 

“I was bored, so I read all of them, and they’re bloody adorable,” Satan burst out. “I never liked the little nuisances either, but--”

“You were curious and felt bad, so you decided to handle a bit of Christmas on your own,” Santa finished. Satan nodded sullenly. “I congratulate you, my friend, but how will you get down the chimney without damaging your suit?” Satan looked down at his suit in faint surprise, as if just now noticing its impeccability. 

“Oh, I’m not going down the chimney,” he said, brushing off invisible dust particles. “Just you wait, Santa.” Santa opened his mouth to protest, because he certainly hoped Satan would not be riding his Flaming Horses of Darkness into the neighborhood of some traumatized child, but before he could say anything, he was being propelled backwards, into his sleigh. As soon as his backside hit the seat, his reindeer lifted into flight, ignoring his outraged cries of “Wait just a minute--!” the entire way. 

~~~~

“That’s your fifth candy cane,” Mrs. Claus observed from behind the massive bag of gifts, absently fiddling with one of her gloves. Santa had crashed down in the front yard minutes ago, and was sporting a glorious headache from the high-speed flight that was borderline whiplash-inducing. “You do remember that you have to save your appetite for getting down all those chimneys.” 

“I’m not worried about that,” Santa retorted, a bit more sharply than he’d intended. Mrs. Claus sighed. 

“This is about Satan, isn’t it?” she asked gently. Santa nodded empathetically. “Well… what if he doesn’t? You’ve never seen him about his duties, so…?” Santa gave her an incredulous look. “Look, if he tried this hard to make the gifts for those children, he obviously cared enough for them. Why don’t you go about your rounds, and I’ll watch him? I’ll step in if he goes wrong, I promise.” Santa scowled at her. “And I’ll film it if he gets stuck in the chimney.” 

“He’s not going down the chimney,” Santa informed her sarcastically, but didn’t argue with his wife’s plan. If Christmas was ruined… it wasn’t the whole world. Just sixty-seven houses. That was all. 

~~~~ 

Santa could have sworn that the stress of worrying about Satan had him shimmying down the chimneys easier than before. And by the time he’d finished, he was more than ready to hit the pillow, but he knew that he had a report from Mrs. Claus to watch. 

Sure enough, she was sitting at his desk, an unreadable expression on her face. He opened his mouth to ask her how it had gone, but she simply motioned him over to the desk and pointed at the computer screen. Santa settled himself in behind her, dread uncomfortably twisting his stomach. 

The street that Mrs. Claus had focused on was dark, with only the faint glow of street lamps lighting up the sidewalks and turning the light dusting of snow across the lawns a pale amber. For a few minutes, there was nothing, then all the lights went out. Santa resisted the urge to slam his head into the desk as Satan seemed to rise from the pavement itself-- flaming horses, the white pony, and all. 

Satan walked up to the first house, his footsteps leaving tiny scorching prints in the snow, and sort of… melted through the doorway. The pony that Santa had seen with the demon earlier also melted through, with little resistance. Santa made a mental note to ask Satan later exactly how he’d done it. 

The camera switched its view into the house, from the view of what must have been the angel at the top of the Christmas tree. Satan was furiously shushing the horse as he led it toward the tree, and for a fleeting moment, Santa thought that Satan could actually pull the operation off. 

His prayers swirled in a nasty gurgle down the drain as the hallway light flicked on, bathing Satan in yellow light. 

“Hey,” the kid, a girl dressed in Elsa pajamas said in bemusement. “You’re not Santa.” Satan froze, a deer-in-the-headlights look etched on his face. “Where’s Santa?” Nothing still from the Devil. 

“Say something,” Santa found himself muttering. Mrs. Claus shushed him. 

“What did you do with Santa?” the girl persisted, looking close to bursting into tears. Tension crackled in the air, noticeable even from the camera, and Santa was sure that Satan had ruined everything, and sixty-six other houses would be suffering the same fate this year-- 

“Pony?” Lucifer offered weakly, shoving the animal forward. The girl’s expression changed from teary to wide-eyed in a matter of milliseconds, her mouth curving into an impossibly wide smile. 

“Santa never gave me a pony,” she breathed. “Who are you?” Satan hesitated for a moment. 

“My name is Satan,” he said finally. The girl tilted her head. 

“Isn’t Satan a monster?” she asked. “He rules all the bad guys.” Satan’s expression seemed to waver, an expression that Santa had never seen before, and if he looked hard enough, he could have sworn that Satan was… tearing up? 

“I-I do,” he managed. The girl, noticing the quiver in his voice, stepped forward; he tried to move back, but she grasped firmly onto his pant leg. 

“Well, if you brought me a pony, maybe you aren’t so bad,” she said decisively. “Mommy and Daddy said that I have problems spelling, and that Santa might not hear me. But you did, so you’re better than Santa, right? Can you come next year?” she pressed. Satan fumbled for a few minutes, for once speechless. 

“Of course, little one,” he said finally. 

“Don’t cry,” the girl reassured belligerently, patting his leg. “You’re not at all like Mommy and Daddy said.” And with that, she ran into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a plate full of cookies lumped with frosting and sprinkles. Santa bit his lip, expecting Satan to refuse them in favor of keeping his suit clean, but to his surprise, Satan took one of the reindeer cookies and bit into it, smearing a bit of frosting onto his lapels.

“Do you like it?” the girl asked hopefully. 

“It’s wonderful, child,” Satan choked out. “Thank you.” 

“My name is Chloe,” the girl said with a smile. “You can take the rest of the cookies. Have a good night, Mr. Satan! Thank you for the pony!” Satan nodded dazedly, and watched the girl disappear upstairs with her pony. The footage switched on to the next house, but Mrs. Claus minimized the screen to black and turned to Santa expectantly. 

“Well, do you believe me now?” she asked. 

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing Satan for a while now.” 


	5. In All Mannerisms

Space, they say, is infinite. It stretches across all constructs of time and space, and when it doesn’t know what to do with all of it, it dots its blackness with faraway lights and great planets, leaving a pretty picture for some stargazer or photographer out there. They call it all the Milky Way or the Andromeda Galaxy or Saturn-- thousands of names for places no one’s ever been before but surely will someday. In all mannerisms, yes, you could say that space is beautiful. No one would disagree with you. 

Space, they say, is mysterious. Space stations have sent hundreds, thousands, of spacecrafts up there, hoping to find bizarre extraterrestrial life, or perhaps a new bacteria. They’ve found planets where diamonds rain sideways or the sky stinks of ammonia or it rains every day for a whole year (which is really twelve Earth years, if anyone was counting). But they haven’t found life yet. Why just Earth? In all mannerisms, yes, you could say that space is strange. No one would disagree with you. 

Space, some have said, is cold. No one talks about the sheer emptiness out there, when you are alone and gazing out the window of your spacecraft. Everything is doused in an inky layer of black, as if some distant God was creating one day and spilled his paints all over creation, leaving only tiny spots of life on the paper where the black hasn’t touched. It’s certain death to leave the confines of your oxygen supply, inevitable doom when your solar system is sucked into some black hole with mass made up of six-and-a-half billion of your Sun. In all mannerisms, yes, you could say that space is cruel. A few people wouldn’t disagree with you. 

Space, I say, is like Death. No one knows much about Death-- they’re a creature of legend, flitting between folklore as an Angel or a God or a Reaper or some twistedly benevolent figure that spirits away those whose hourglasses have filled. Death is fair; they are wise and they hold many secrets in that secret universe behind the hood. But you would be a fool to say that Death is not cruel, or cold, or merciless. You cannot cheat Death, when it is already there, all around you and waiting its turn in the black. In all mannerisms, yes, you could say that Death is like space. Only I could agree with you. 

Thirty-five days have I sat here, staring out into that vast emptiness while the oxygen meter in my spacecraft whines dejectedly. _Power_ , it asks. _Power_. _Power_. _Power_. That’s all it says as it continues to flash its little red light at me, like a frustrated child begging for a toy. But I have no toys, not in this space, this cold, this beauty, this Death. _Just wait_ , I reply simply, as I lean my face against the cool glass. Just a few more days, and then there will be no window, no child, no toy. In all mannerisms, it’ll be just me and the endless void that I court called Space.


	6. Feather for Ya

Red sand, crimson against a hellfire-lit sky, is everywhere. In the angel’s shoes, blowing in small clouds through the air, and all over their clothes. The angel sucks in a breath, wincing, as their foot lands in some dip and they fall face-first in the sand. That wouldn’t be the first time arriving in this literally god-forsaken place. 

As they climb to their feet again, they hear the faint sound of a tragically lonely harmonica, the notes wheezing out over a surprising distance. The angel would normally ignore something like this— they have no time for badly-played elementary instruments— but there  _ is _ the fact that Hell is empty. 

All of sinners and murderers and dirty liars of the world are gone. Ever since the gates of Hell were opened (read: casually unlocked by Beelzebub), it has been— well— hell for Heaven to track down the souls. The angel had been faced with no choice but to confront Beelzebub himself, who’d for some reason stayed in Hell. Why, the angel has no idea. 

The angel falls for the third time as they get closer to Beelzebub’s miserable little tower.  _ How many holes are even in this place? _

“Six hundred and sixty-six,” a bored voice answers from everywhere and nowhere. The angel’s head whips up, eyes flicking across the landscape, but they don’t see Beelzebub. Perhaps…?

“No Beelzebub,” the voice continues, sounding a bit closer. The angel squints, and finally, they can make out the dim red glow of a demon (their demon), perched cross-legged on the windowsill.

“What are you doing up there?” the angel asks. 

“Watching you fall,” the demon replies. “No pun intended, of course.” 

“Did you let the souls out?” 

“Do I look like Beelzebub?” 

“No,” the angel admits.

“Then why’d you ask?” the demon asks, rolling their eyes. There’s none of their usual malice behind the tone, which surprises the angel.  _ Normally…  _

“Do you have any idea where Beelzebub and the condemned souls are?” the angel asks instead. The demon shrugs. 

“Are you sad?” 

“I’m not sad,” they hiss. “Do you have any idea how annoying Beelzebub is?” 

“Sure.” 

“Then shove off. Leave me be.” 

“But you never play the harmonica,” the angel blurts out. The demon raises an eyebrow. “You normally play... “ they falter— “...other things. So if you’ve had a change, then—” 

“I’m not lonely!” the demon snaps. “Stop asking, angel. It’s annoying.” 

“Alright,” the angel sighs. They turn to leave, but pause for a moment. The demon watches them with a hawklike gaze as they close their eyes and let their wings expand out over the desolate landscape.

“What are you doing?” 

“Just a minute.” 

“What—” The demon rears back at the faint flash of light as the angel grasps a downy feather and tugs. “What are you doing?” 

“Feather for ya,” the angel replies with a shrug, refolding their wings back in, and sticking the end of the shaft in the sand. “If you want it, come get it. If not, leave it.” 

“That was a waste of a feather,” the demon snorts, rocking back on their haunches. The angel says nothing and simply turns away. Their mission is done and both parties know it.

As the angel walks back across the landscape of blood and ruin and echoes of heartache, there’s a faint crunch and a small sniffle. The angel could never tell what  _ exactly _ the noise was, and hellfire be rained upon them if they looked back, but perhaps the small sacrifice wasn’t quite as in vain as the demon said it was. 


	7. Do I Know You?

Staring contests, to her, have always been a pointless endeavor. They always win. 

She fidgets with her fingers, resisting the urge to untangle them from their interlocked position to reach towards the glass separating her and them. They’d never hear nor see her, but the sentiment is appreciated. 

Their gaze… oh, how she’d give anything to re-ignite that unique grey gaze. The eyes that blazed with such passion as their owner tore down the street, some brilliant idea birthed as their new brainchild, and it must be tended to at once. The eyes that held a cunning sharpness that could strip apart every inch of a lie and bare someone’s untruths, naked and exposed, in front of everyone. And they had, many times. 

She never thought time, or anything, could catch those quicksilver eyes. They’d been too fast for any mortal being to catch up with ( _ or so she thought _ ) but she had to bite her tongue after all. 

The doctors had said that they were free to go home, but what point was there when all that she was followed with was the same dull eyes? 

She’s jerked out of her thoughts when their lips began moving-- unsteadily, unlike the fast-talking, witty being she’d always loved. 

“Who… who are you?” they ask, standing on wobbly legs to cross over to the glass. She presses one hand against her forehead, silently willing her mind to drive away the images of their limp body being carried out of that  _ facility _ . “Do I know you?” 

Oh, how she misses that voice. But it’s not like she’s used to. Not what she wants. 

“Yes,” her tongue forms. Their brow furrows in confusion. 

“I don’t remember you,” they say, in an accusatory tone. “Why am I here? What are you doing here?” She chokes back a cry, but doesn’t respond. “Say something! Do I know you? Who are you?” 

They continue shouting as she drags herself out the chair, stumbling toward the door, hounded by a slew of questions that she can’t answer, no matter how many times she knows that they used to know by heart. 

Finally, she can’t take it anymore. 

“You don’t know me,” she shouts, whirling around to glare at their beautiful, perfect face, gaunt and cut and so  _ confused _ . “I’m nobody.” She chokes on these words, but she has to say them. “I’m nobody to you. Forget me.” 

They stare at her, unblinking. 

“Forget me!” she shouts, her voice rising. “Do it, forget me! _ I never existed _ .” 

As she turns to leave, tears blinding her vision, her heart shatters a little bit more as she hears a faint, curious, “You never existed.”


	8. Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a snippet, I’m sorry :(

It’s nothing short of an awkward scene between the two; them, who is currently wearing only pants and is groping for a shirt, and the hero, who’s fully clothed and a bit frozen. Whatever this is, however, isn’t sexual, in any fashion. If anything, it’s uncomfortable (for them, at least), because the hero is staring at them. Their torso, specifically, and the long scar running from collarbone to belly-button. 

“Does it hurt?” the hero asks quietly; it’s the quietest they’ve seen the hero in awhile now. Their gaze, unconsciously, travels down to the ugly, raised mark. 

“It did, when I received it. Years ago.” 

“I can’t believe someone would do that to you,” the hero breathes. At that, they feel a small, familiar pang of anger rising to the surface of their consciousness; they’d hoped they and the hero could avoid this conversation, but it seemed unlikely. 

Their anger speaks first.

“You did this,” they spit. “You did this, and you don’t even remember, do you?” The hero steps back, horror painting itself across its voice, but also recognition. Remembrance, crashing back and rearing its ugly head. 

There’s no words, just silence for a few long beats. Finally, they can’t take it anymore; they pull their shirt over their head and stalk toward the door. It shuts with a resounding, satisfying slam.

They don’t see the hero for a long time after that. 


	9. World-Class Jerk (Or So You Thought)

Explosions rock the bunker as another wave of nuclear bombs make their entrance thousands of feet above them. Despite the distance, their only safe haven is still collapsing. And there’s only one way out. 

“Move along, move along.” Their voice is infuriatingly aloof and calm amidst the chaos; if the hero didn’t know any better, they thought they could pick out a note of indifference. It’s working, though; the people, reassured by an unbothered,  _ normal _ person, are running in a somewhat orderly fashion toward safety. 

The ceiling suddenly releases a huge plume of dust, and a few seconds later, a massive chunk of concrete follows. The hero shields their eyes, tugging back a woman and her child who’d been making for the exits, trying to see through the dust, but for too long, there is nothing. 

It has only been a few seconds, but finally, the dust clears to reveal the hole, which has been—

The hero’s heart sinks. It’s been covered by the ceiling chunk. People begin to wail, and chaos starts to flood the cavern. The hero tries to raise their voice over the panic, but there is nothing that can hold it back. 

There’s a grating noise, and suddenly, the concrete is moving, releasing another cloud of dust. No one seems to notice until the faint light from the tunnel begins to shine through, and then there is more shouting and clamoring. This time, however, it’s joyful.

Amidst the dust, the hero spots a lone figure standing beside the hole, whom they’ve (with a guilty pang of realization) have forgotten was there. It’s  _ them _ , looking bruised and bloody and covered with a layer of dust, but they’re there. They must have cleared the hole through some feat of supernatural strength.

Adrenaline floods the hero, and they forget their stoic expression as they rush to get people out of the cavern. Finally, until the last child is through the hole, the hero turns back to them, motioning for them to go. They nod shakily, and climb through the hole, wincing as they begin the descent upwards. 

When the sunlight finally touches the hero’s face, they could have almost wept for joy right there. The ground is hollowed out from explosions, some of the craters still smoking, but it doesn’t matter. They’re  _ alive _ , they’ve  _ survived— _

“Look at you, jumping around like a four-year old,” they say, dryly, from behind the hero. The hero turns, a bit of irritation darkening their mood. Trust  _ them _ to ruin the fun. 

“Are you not happy that everyone is alive?” the hero snaps back. They take a small step back, flinching at the movement, but shake their head. 

“I am, don’t worry,” they reply, but their voice is noticeably laced with pain. The hero wants to brush it off as nothing, just the usual scrapes and bruises from the collapse, but they’ve begun to sway on their feet, as if their legs can’t support them anymore. 

“You alright?” They make to nod, but the action seems Heraclean for them; they suddenly pitch forward and collide with the ground, eliciting a strangled scream as they make contact with the grass.

The hero dives to their side, rolling them over and ignoring their weak protests. The shirt is easy to rip apart, but the hero almost wishes it wasn’t. 

Blood and darkened bruises are forming in ugly red patches all over their torso. A gentle brush of a fingertip over one the areas provokes a gasp and a flinch; broken ribs, definitely. The guilt surges back as the hero pieces together exactly  _ how _ everyone got out. They must have been buried under the ceiling debris, based on their injuries, and by some miracle, pulled them and the concrete free and away from the hole. It’s a task the hero would have never thought possible of them. 

“Why did you do that?” the hero finds themselves whispering. Their eyes crack open for a moment, narrowing slightly. 

“Don’t tell,” they mutter, batting at the hero’s hands weakly and steadfastly avoiding the question. “Still gotta be a— world class— “ They never finish as they pass out in the hero’s lap.


	10. ankles deep (in the other sea)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to the Eastern Sea, there is a path, lined with gravel and sand.

On the road to the Eastern Sea, there is a path, lined with gravel and sand.

It was originally just pavement, but after years and years of drivers and beachgoers kicking up sand on their way back from the beach, the two just melded together, as if it’d always been like that. With a sharp twist of the steering wheel, you turn onto it, feeling the familiar crunch of tires grating against sand. The sun is setting, and its rays stab at your eyes through your dusty windshield, but you simply flip down the sun visor and keep driving.

Dad didn’t notice that you took the car, the same way he didn’t notice anything else you did. 

After your mom got swallowed by the Eastern Sea _(_ _it was a boating accident, they said. It was bound to happen. She shouldn’t have been so far out_ _)_ , your dad moved you deep into the heart of the city. Away from the coast and safe from the memories, and surrounded by the swell of nightlife. 

He doesn’t know you hate it, hate how everything is so loud and the people won’t shut up and there are neon signs everywhere. The fact that it’s dubbed “Ocean City” is like salt in a wound; it’s nothing like the seaside. The seaside is loud in its own way, with waves crashing against the shore and seagulls screaming out to each other as they wheel above your head. Sometimes it storms there, and you watch at the window as lightning crackles in the clouds and thunder shakes the very foundations of the house. Here in the city, people just pull out gaudily-colored umbrellas and continue to clog the streets. 

Dad didn’t notice that you took the car, and it was sickeningly easy to pry the keys from his limp fingers and rev up the engine to the Jeep you keep in your garage, which is stuffed full of boxes of memories left to rot. When shards of your mother’s little sailboat washed up as driftwood a week after she disappeared, it didn’t take long for him to strike up an affair with the bottle and the burning liquid inside. You know that he’s always been a lightweight, and every night when you hear the bottle land with a heavy thump on the kitchen table, you know that he’s out. Can’t think, can’t function-- he can only wallow in the memories he’s trying to forget. In a sick kind of way, you both love and hate his drinking-- love how it puts the distance between you, so he doesn’t have to see your tears, and hate how it’s taken his mind and heart and soul away. 

Sometimes he calls you by her name. _Julieanne_ _,_ he slurs, lips twisted into a faint grin. _Why’d you have to leave, Julieanne? They say a lot of things about you, Julieanne. Come back, Julieanne_ _._ You tried to correct him at first, but you know that in his alcohol-addled mind, he can’t see past the sun-kissed freckles and fox-red hair you and your mother both share ( _shared_ ). So you cut your hair as short as you can go without the city kids making fun of you, and it now brushes your jaw in an uneven, jagged line. It’s fine, you reassured yourself that night, and pretended that it didn’t hurt when one of the things your mother gave you fell into the kitchen sink and down the drain. 

You’re reaching the part of the sea path where one side is bared to the open sky, with only a flimsy guardrail to warn people away. You know the route by heart: keep going straight through the city until you see the cliffs, then take the cliff path to get to the little town you used to call home. There, little sea shacks and wooden houses and boardwalks are clustered like sheep, all leading down to the beach below by way of well-worn paths through springy grass. You remember when your mom let you help paint the house when you just moved in, remember how you laughed as you splashed color onto the plain white boards. Now, your house is a cramped brick townhouse, surrounded by hundreds of others just like it, and you feel like throwing up every time you turn the key because it doesn’t stick like your old house’s lock did, and the door isn’t shielded by a screen door like your old house had, and this house wasn’t built and painted for you just like your old house was. 

It’s all cold and impersonal now. The tires of the car were exchanged for plain city tires, the sand scraped off in the car wash, and the body painted a conservative silver. When you get back to your old home, you’re going to beg for some cans of paint and then splash over the silver with so many colors it’ll look like a firework hit it. You’re going to sit in your mom’s old bedroom and look out the window you watched thunderstorms through. You’re going to run down the path to the sea and kick your feet in the waves for her, and your tears will mingle with the sea foam. 

But unbeknownst to you, fate has been sharpening her scissors for a long time now, and she has not penned down a _when_ in your schedule. In the five years your mom has been gone, she’s been waiting, waiting as you rip up the B's and C’s and D’s, waiting as you cry yourself to sleep, waiting as you look up at the sky and wish everything could just disappear. And maybe you’re too deep in dreams, maybe your call to the sea is too strong, but when you snap out of your imagination, drunk of memories instead of alcohol, you see that you’ve unconsciously been careening toward the guardrail. _Always avoid the guardrail,_ your mother had reminded you sternly when she was driving and you watched in the passenger seat. _Never know when a hurricane’s going to blow it clean off, do you?_

Hurricanes have to wait for a new guardrail to rip off then, you think, before the wheels of your car are churning into the metal and you fall, down, down, down, to your lost love, the sea.

* * *

Distantly, you hear Fate titter. 

* * *

Everything whites out when you hit the bottom. Through a haze, you can feel the framework of the car curled around your limbs, trapping you in place. Broken glass and seashells mix together on the car floor _(_ _at least you think it’s the floor_ _)_ , biting into your palms. You let out a delirious laugh, half-crying and half-choking, though you’re not really sure why. Water is quick to flood into the car from the busted-in windshield, stinging your cuts with salt and collecting your water on the floor. Your body wants you to slip under, to let you impale yourself on the ruins you created, to make you become one with the unforgiving sea, but if there’s one thing you inherited from your mother, it’s that neither of you bow down for anything. She stood against everything that blocked her way, and you bet she stood as the storm ripped her boat apart and guzzled her whole. 

All your limbs protest as you stand shakily. Maybe it’s adrenaline, maybe it’s the last shred of strength your body is willing to give before it fails, but you manage to crawl through the gap where the windshield was and tumble onto the sand. The sea is so close now, so close that you drag yourself forward, clambering to your hands and knees and eventually upright, and then you stand there. Stand gazing out over the ocean, which laps at your ankles and turns a cloudy red as it stings your wounds. 

The sun is in your eyes again and suddenly you’re struck with the memory of an evening just like this when it was your mother and you, jumping waves as the day died. Her hair was windblown and messy and tumbled over her shoulders like tangled fishing lines; yours barely brushed your shoulders but was equally disheveled as hers. She laughed when a wave swept in and soaked the edge of her dress, and your giggle joined her, high-pitched and gleeful, as you were drenched too. 

There’s only two feet, now. Two feet being swallowed by the waves, two feet not strong enough to jump over them. Strangely, you don't mind; you even smile. Because after all these years, you’re finally ankles-deep in the other sea. 


	11. burn it all down, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have your miracles. You have your lighter. Burn it all down, baby.

“Did you do it?” 

A silence answers them, one that caresses slender fingers over their throat and ever so gently, more intimate than a lover, applies a pressure that chokes off their breath and makes heat burn behind their eyes. There is no sound but tapping; tapping, tapping, fingers dragging themselves over a keyboard with a resigned air. It is not a frantic motion, from one determined to break themselves out of hell, but rather, one that looks up at the never-ending red sky and simply closes their eyes. 

And they hate that, hate how he was bursting with energy and light and life only a few hours ago, holding their hand as they fled through darkened streets, cans of neon paint clanking against each other in their cloth bag. Hate the fierce elation they felt, surging through their veins better than any drug, as they graffitied defiant words on brick, a grandiose _fuck you_ to the ones that tried to wipe their words and their color away. 

In a way, they’re waiting for him to respond, to say no, to take their hand and conjure one more miracle from that brilliant mind of his that works at a million miles a minute and can turn any disaster into the opposite. The rebels, the ones that sneak weapons into their pockets and take their Boxes off their heads when no one is looking, even call him Miracle Man. Full of miracles, full of surprises, full of half-smiles snuck under a simple Box with the up arrow facing the wrong way. 

“All we have to do is wait,” comes the reply. Is it a reply, or a doomsday herald? The final handful of dirt in the grave, the innocent’s last breath, the penultimate moment before the world comes crashing down around them? It’ll be all of them at once, they think, with a small laugh that isn’t so much a laugh but a broken giggle. Because no one lives long enough to see the light of day here; no, they saw it every day for sixteen years as they walked to school, bloodied and beat-in Boxes lying in the street like they were just decoration. They never thought about who was under there, who paid the price to have the cool air kiss their face. Just once. 

Just once, and it killed them. And no one ever cared. 

“Hey.” He’s cupping their face, brushing away their tears with his thumbs and pulling them into his chest, stroking their hair gently. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have taken the risk, shouldn’t have asked you, I’m sorry--” 

“I don’t want to die,” they whisper. Their voice cracks at the end as they take in the full weight of what he’s, what _they’re_ , about to do. At the very heart of The Corporation, surrounded by pure white rows of gently humming machinery and standing at the very console that can make or break everything, their hands hover over the red button that will make _and_ break everything. It’s a huge chance, one that might not even work. It could be for nothing, and they won’t pretend not to know that there are others that have tried the same thing they have, only to be killed with ruthless efficiency. 

Morbidly, they wonder if their Box will join all the others littering the sidewalks. 

“I know.” His voice is as choked as theirs is, the hands of fate allowing him no more air that they have. They know he’s torn, too, torn at having to make a decision so young, when the future depends on whether he lives or dies. 

“How long?” 

“A minute, at most.” 

A minute, before their world comes crashing down in a blaze of smoke and fire from a homemade bomb cobbled together from smuggled items slipped between careful hands. 

“Can you--” They don’t even have to finish before he’s tugging them closer until they can feel his heart jackhammering against his chest and the small hitches of his breath. Distantly, as if they were underwater, they can hear sirens begin to blare and hurried footsteps pounding upstairs. The Corporation has discovered the fatal flaw in their system, the door they left unlocked and the hole they left unpatched in the firewall.

It’s too late now. 

“Are you afraid?” 

A pause, but it has less weight than the first time. They both know the answer to the question, and even so, they breathe it back to him. His throat bobs and they can feel him grip them a little tighter. 

“Yes.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

They look up at him for the final time, see the fresh tear-tracks staining his cheeks and the exhaustion in his eyes from searching for just one more miracle. Carefully, they rove their eyes over his face, memorizing all the little details-- the chip in his front tooth from when he fell in the school courtyard, the ragged edges of his hair from when he cut it free from Corporation guidelines, the small dimples dented into his cheeks that were only visible when he smiled. 

“Don’t be.” 

* * *

Everything is blurry, muted, like they’re back under their Box, surrounded by peaceful, mindless static. But this is not static; this is fog, almost, a fog that shrouds everything around them from view. They rub their eyes, trying to see if the fog is just a result of the cloudiness of their own eyes, but nothing happens. They take a step forward and--

The world blazes into color again, exploding out like paints spilled from their pots and splattered in glorious arcs. As the scene takes form, they freeze because _they remember this moment_ . They stand in an alleyway, the brick stained with the ghost of neon paint, and as they watch longer, they see _themself_ pause at the entrance, aim a cursory glance both ways, and walk toward them, head bent low and arms curled toward their chest. Their Box is still on, so their face is hidden and most of their vision is likely obscured. 

“What does it feel like?” The voice of their past self is still painfully young, but it’s edged with curiosity. They’re suddenly aware of why exactly they’re here now, why they’re standing in a snippet of their past. They can choose to spark the flame that will set the world their younger self knows on fire, or they can let the hope die in them. Let them keep on smiling, keep on walking, keep on living. And they’re tempted, ever so tempted to make them walk away. They don’t have to die at seventeen, consumed in a fire that takes down the entire Corporation. 

But they also know that without this, nothing will change. They’ll never meet him, never get a chance to see the stars, never get to scrawl words of rebellion on the city walls until dawn. There’s a choice to live or die, but deep in their heart, they know that it was never a choice. It can’t be a choice, if they want their life to mean something. 

“It feels amazing, kid,” they hear themself whisper, watch themself slowly lift the Box off their past self’s head. The child underneath has messy hair, a style that would never be city-approved, and wide eyes that stare up at them in awe. They raise their hands to their cheeks, touching them gently, and look around the alley, seeing all the color. They pivot, briefly, toward the street, and see a Box, its sides crushed and red stains on its flaps, before turning back. Their eyes are now open, and they can never go back. With a new solemnity in their eyes, they slowly lift the Box onto their head and walk out of the alley and back into the street, as if nothing had ever happened.

They watch their younger self go, and continue to stand in the alleyway even as the white fog begins to creep back. An abandoned can of spray paint catches their eye, and they snag it before the fog swallows it up, tossing it back and forth between their hands. Turning to the wall, they shake the can and aim it, finger squeezing down on the head of the nozzle. Neon pink paint scorches the walls in spidery letters, carving a phrase that they’ve kept in their heart for years now. It’s their only way to kiss the world goodbye, and with the fog approaching even faster, they can’t think of another way. 

_You have your miracles. You have your lighter. Burn it all down,_ _baby._


End file.
